


Mort's story

by HugeWingspans



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: This is what happens when I procrastinate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 23:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12804567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeWingspans/pseuds/HugeWingspans
Summary: Some highlights in the existence of our favorite door knocker.





	Mort's story

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no explanation, I just saw a post on tumblr. Why does this happen? I don't know.

There’s nothing. There’s darkness. There’s quiet.

Then there’s something. Fire. Light. Heat. Melting, burning.

And it’s a little bit painful.

And just like that it  _is_. It hears, though it does not know how; it sees through something its mind does not yet have the words to describe.

What it sees is a being - a man, it later learns - shaped in a way that it knows, through some instinct, that it itself is not. Though it understands, in some way, that this being, this thing, must be responsible in some manner for its sudden, annoyingly painful introduction to  _existence_ , it knows that the two of them are somehow different.

How it knows this, it has no clue.

The being opens a hole on its - for some reason the word  _he_ pops to mind - his front. The creation is surprised when sounds start pouring from the hole.

It is even more surprised that the sounds have meaning, and that it can understand them.

“You are Mort,” the  _he_ says, addressing the creation. Mort. “I am Brannon, and I have created you.” the  _he_ continues, seeming somewhat uncomfortable with having to explain this. Perhaps the  _he_ doesn’t create many Morts.

Mort doesn’t know how to answer - it is confused, both by this sudden need it feels to make sounds on its own, but more so by the mechanisms of the whole ordeal. It is fairly certain that its shape differs from his in a manner that should make the creation of sound a very unpleasant action.

Still, it decides to try.

“Thank you,” it says, then wonders if that might have been the wrong response. Indeed, the  _he_ , Brannon, seems rather confused by its reply.

But Brannon nods slowly, then starts sinking down. The action confuses Mort, until it realizes that Brannon is resting his rather large form on an object - a  _chair_ , it’s certain it’s called.

“I suppose it’s only fair I tell you why I have created you,” Brannon says, and he seems somewhat less tense.

Because Mort has no neck, it cannot nod. It decides to wait patiently instead.

Brannon explains Mort’s purpose, telling it the story of a young Fae princess and her human husband, of terrible monsters born of darkness, and of the hope the world would yet come to see.

As Brannon speaks, Mort listens - at least, most of the time. As it listens, it learns, and as it doesn’t listen it also learns.

One thing it learns is that it would much rather be a  _he_ than an it. He doesn’t know why, but something about applying the word  _it_ to himself, a being that is as alive as his creator Brannon, seems wrong.

“Which is why I will need you.” Brannon finishes.

Mort considers Brannon’s story for a while. It actually doesn’t sound like a bad arrangement.

“Well, I suppose that doesn’t sound too bad. Mind you, where is this door?”

***

Oh, how he should have guessed.

Mort can’t help but curse himself as the third day of his immortal watch begins. When Brannon said tomb, he thought he might be somewhere outside, with a view that might change now and again with the seasons.

But a tomb that is underground has the same view year round, with small variations depending on the time of day.

He has eternity to spend and all he will see is a murky, dusty old hallway.

The word  _irony_ comes to mind.

***

For several years, Mort gets regular visits. From Brannon, from his grandchildren, visiting their mother’s grave.  _Elena_.

The queen who made a mistake. The daughter Brannon still loved, despite all their differences.

Soon enough, his creator stops visiting. His descendants inform him that Brannon has faded away, no longer willing to stay in this life. Mort is startled to realize that the person informing him of this development is not, in fact, Elena’s son but her grandson.

So the years pass and as the world forgets Elena, her bravery and her foolishness, the visits grow fewer and farther between.

And Mort is left on his own.

He supposes that would be enough to drive anyone, even a metal doorknocker, just a little bit crazy.

Which is exactly what he believes himself when he starts hearing a voice inside the tomb.

At first it’s only a fluttering, and Mort thinks that some rocks must have fallen from the ceiling. Then it is a rustling, and Mort thinks that somehow, a bird must have gotten stuck inside the tomb.

And he hopes to all Gods that it’s the same dove who took a shit on his ear last week. He hopes no one comes to visit for a long, long while and that the dove gets stuck in the tomb.

But soon enough the sound of a speaking voice becomes unmistakable.

He refuses to believe it - once, Elena’s son had stayed behind for almost an hour during a visit without making a sound. When he left Mort was so startled, if he had a heart he would have had a heart attack. Since then he has counted everyone that goes in and out, making sure everyone has left before letting himself relax.

Deciding that he could use the opportunity to scream at someone for being where they ought not to, he manages to swing the door open.

Sitting on Elena’s grave, holding her throat and trying to say something, occasionally managing to make a sound, is… Elena.

That’s when he decides eternity is way, way too long, even for someone with a brain made of metal.

***

Elena, as it turns out, is good company - when she bothers sticking around. Whatever deal the Gods are holding her to it doesn’t allow her to stay long. She still manages to explain most of her planing, of the clues left behind in her tomb. Some, Brannon had already told him about. Others are new to Mort, and he files them away for later, when he will have the opportunity to not tell Brannon’s heir.

More years pass and Mort has a feeling that whatever secret tunnel holds his passage has long since passed out of memory. The few people he sees about are unfamiliar to him, and many of them sneak around as if afraid to alert someone to their presence.

And always, the Gods-damned doves.

Most of them, Mort can scare away with a few startling growls.

But one of them insists that Mort’s head is the only acceptable place to build a nest.

Mort is just about ready to rip himself off the door - damn his purpose - to just bite the damn thing when he hears a new sound.

As pathetic as it is, new sounds have become of particular interest to Mort. He already knows the sound of water dripping, of insects scuttling, of cavern doves’ wings fluttering. He even knows the sound of Elena’s voice, rare as it is to hear it these days.

What he doesn’t hear often is the sound of  _breathing_.

It has often amazed Mort how loud the bodily functions of humans and Fae are. From their breathing to their heartbeats to their urinating - something Mort became familiar with about two centuries ago, when a young prince used the tunnels as a way to sneak into the city for a good time. Mort still remembered the smell of the prince’s urine, and the words of the lewd songs he hummed off tune. 

In those days Mort cursed Brannon for creating him with his acute hearing and sense of smell.

But the hearing comes in handy, he has to admit, when it means knowing that someone approaches.

Two young men, both of them wearing expressions that suggest they are up to no good, scuttle around the tunnels, peeking through every door.

Exploring, then.

Mort wants to sigh but decides that the closed quarters and the echoing of the walls makes it a bad idea.

One of them comes to the end of the hallway, standing in front of Mort, examining him. It doesn’t take effort, per se, to be still - being still comes naturally to him since he  _is_ made of metal - but Mort finds himself suddenly very aware of every movement he makes.

“Per, check this!” the man - boy, really - calls to his friend. Mort smells alcohol on his breath.

The other boy comes over and looks at Mort as well.

“Ah, that’s cool,” The boy called Per says and reaches out to touch Mort.

Oh, he’s had it.

“I’d rather you didn’t do that, thanks,” Mort says, lacing his voice with as much annoyance as he can muster. Something that becomes difficult when he observes their reaction.

Both boys fall back very suddenly, Per’s hand falling down as his mouth drops open.

“What the -” The other boy begins, but Mort decides that it’s been far too long since he had this kind of fun. Oh, other doorknockers must be so boring.

“Oh, that’s a very rude reaction, wouldn’t you say? You stand there with your mouth open like a fish - an expression I’ve never quite understood, mind you - acting all surprised because ‘ah! talking doorknocker!’. You don’t see me going ‘ah! talking human!’. It’s rather off-putting, to be honest with you.” Mort says, stifling his laughter at the still gaping faces of the boys.

“Erhm…” The boy called Per is quicker to get his bearings. He’s probably had less to drink. Or more, since Mort’s limited experience was that drunk people were more likely to accept anything going on around them.

“Oh, shit Per. Did we drink that old witch’s whiskey again?” The other boy whispers.

“I’m right here, you know!” Mort says, feeling a little undignified. While he is amused by the reactions he usually gets from those less experienced with magic, insinuating that he is nothing but a hallucination is taking it a step too far.

“Sorry. We were just… that is, we were…” Per starts, then trails off.

“You were snooping. I noticed.” Mort rolls his eyes, a delightful skill he learned from a young lady’s lover about six centuries back.

The other boy tugs on Per’s tunic, bringing his mouth to Per’s ear. Whispering, even though Mort can hear everything from their voices to their digestive system.

“Per, Per. Ask him if we can go in there. I want to see.”

Mort rolls his eyes again.

“Tell you what, you take this nest off of my head and I’ll consider it.” Mort replies.

Both boys hesitate before one - the one who’s not Per - reaches forward and topples the nest off of Mort’s head.

“Sooo…” the boy draws out the word. “Can we come in?” He smiles, something that would no doubt charm someone made of flesh who hadn’t been hanging on a door for near a millennia.

“No,” Mort says out of sheer stubbornness. He doesn’t bother telling them that he has no say in whether or not the door opens. That it’s just a damn door.

The boy looks almost shocked, but Per drags him away.

“It is amazing the kind of shit I put up with for you,” Per whispers when he most likely thinks the’re out of earshot.

“Well, ex _cuse_  me, your graceful holy majesty lord Perrington, I just wanted to know why the talking door-thingy was there.” The other boy replies, much louder.

“Shh!” Per says harshly. One of the last things Mort hears from the two boys is Per’s voice, saying something along the lines of “deserve to be knighted,” and “made Duke, even,”

Mort groans a little in frustration, but as he glances down at the broken nest beneath the door he remembers how, despite their annoyingness, the two boys had helped him defeat his arch-nemesis.

But he still hopes he never sees them again.

***

He does see them again. But the two boys come bearing darkness and terror and monsters.

They don’t remember him, and he can do nothing as they barge into Elena’s resting place, except watch and remain silent as they remove something, something he is getting too old to care about, from her resting place.

He does get extremely annoyed, however, when they don’t even bother closing the door behind themselves.

He decides that for that crime he will see them brought down.

***

Mort is terribly busy counting the cracks in the ceiling - two more than last century, one of them half an inch longer than it was ten years ago - when a shudder goes through the lands.

If Mort had a stomach it would plummet. A feeling that is only furthered by the sound of Elena’s voice in the tomb.

“Magic.” She says, and Mort swings his door open so that he can look at her. “Magic is gone.” Elena clarifies with a shocked whisper.

“How come we’re both still here, then?” Mort asks, although he doesn’t really care much for the answer. He was just about to start counting the cracks in the opposite direction and would like to get back to it.

“You have already been made. And me…” Elena furrows her brow “Whatever is keeping me here is not magic. At least, not the conventional kind.”

“So what difference does it make that magic is gone?” Mort simply asks, about to close his door.

“It makes the difference that now, the things the Gods have set in motion will be much harder to control.” She says.

Right. The Gods.

His reason for being here. Was it time already?

He’d forgotten.

***

It still takes a few more years for him to see what the Gods - the Gods along with Elena, who is being awfully secretive - are planing. Not that it matters to him. Another millennia could pass and he would never truly notice, down in the dark.

All he really has to mark the time at this point are the generations of doves - just another reason he can’t stand the damn things. They remind him of time passing.

But when the young princess comes he is not expecting her. He must confess that she does wake some curiosity in him, something he hasn’t felt in a while. It isn’t only the fact that he’s been down here for far, far too long and is starved for company that doesn’t use the word ‘Gods’ in every sentence, but it is also the ease with which she moves, and moves towards him. 

She’s here with a purpose.

She looks at the door, her dark skin glowing by the light of the small lamp she has brought with her.

She pushes the door open, then closes it behind her.

Mort can still hear Elena welcoming the princess, the princess of Eyllwe.

He doesn’t like their conversation. But he remembers, or at least starts to, why he is here. And he remembers who the two royal women inside will be bringing down.

Those Gods-damned assholes who hadn’t even closed the door when they left.

***

The next princess is so, so different from the first.

Golden hair and eyes that glow, some part of him that is linked to his creator knows that this is the heir of Brannon.

He doesn’t speak to her. Not that night. Not the next.

In fact, it’s a while before he even considers it.

If she’s anything like her ancestors, he’ll need to have all his amassed insults ready on hand. Something that is quite difficult when he has no hands.

But a night comes when he simply cannot resist the temptation, as the princess stands for long moments outside the tomb.

Strange, despite how long he has been around, how those moments bore him to tears - or would, if he had tear ducts.

In the end it’s the knowledge that she won’t find the one she seeks inside that makes him speak - he has to deliver a message.

“Aren’t you going to knock?”


End file.
